Stolen

"Three minutes to the train," thought Rakesh. It had been a tiring day for him. His job at the dockyard, which was initially hard on him, had gotten easier with time. Earlier, it was a strange caricature of decay and resurrection, but after his first salary was credited a few days ago, the same structure turned into the sweaty smell of hope. Somehow, he had found a home in the blood-metal sound of machines and the ocean's blue water and skies. He did not particularly enjoy coming to the railway station, though. The railway station always made him envious of the lives other people had—families saying affectionate goodbyes, girlfriends holding hands with their boyfriends, and a group of young men cackling with laughter and merriment. It was this envy that made him buy an expensive new smartphone with his first salary. He wanted to feel more confident among the crowd around him. He had already imagined himself standing beside the pole of the Mumbai local train, earphones in his ears, and the wind blowing through his hair. The fact that he owned such an expensive piece of technology made him beam with happiness and joy. He had touched his front pocket jeans countless times, partly because he wanted to be sure that he had one and partly just to enjoy its feel in his pocket. 

"Pooooo..." whistled the train. Rakesh looked up toward the arriving train. Finally, he was going home. He raised his suitcase over his head so that he could fight his way into the general coach of the train. It's amazing to see how quickly people coalesce to get into the general coach of the train. Rakesh nudged around with his elbows as he tried to get on board. In the midst of elbow-kicking and chest foreplay, he saw the familiar face of Mr. Patloo. Mr. Patloo was a 40-year-old man with five strands of hair on his head. He wore a colorful T-shirt and tight-fitted jeans. You did not have to look closely to understand that he was a textbook example of midlife crisis. Oblivious to his bizarre sense of fashion, Mr. Patloo greeted Rakesh with a wide, affectionate smile as both of them fought their way through the crowd. Somehow, they were lucky enough to be inside the train. The general coach of the bogie is a different type of caricature in itself. As you pass, you can smell the different body odors mixed on the bogie.